


The Easiest Solution

by albawrites



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Blow Jobs, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Orgy, Sticky Sex, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albawrites/pseuds/albawrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rummaging around an abandoned laboratory ends up with some interesting results. Too interesting, if you ask Fulcrum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Easiest Solution

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING(s): Completely porn, NSFW. Sticky sex. Fulcrum/pretty much every Scavenger  
> DISCLAIMER: None of the characters are owned by the author, simply written for amusement and the fact that the Scavengers don’t receive nearly enough attention as they ought to and I like writing straight up porn sometimes.  
> NOTES: This is completely inspired from a kinkfill request. Anon, I hope this satisfies your needs. Cobble and Aircommanderp, thanks for beta-ing; I know there was a ton of grammatical errors in this one.

" _So, any bets on whose lab it was?_ " Misfire muses over the commlink. " _Maybe Shockwave's?_ "

" _Please. He'd have something a lot more impressive than this dump,_ " Crankcase sniffs, mildly offended on behalf of the infamous scientist. " _My vote's on Tarantulas._ "

Mostly, the chatter between the two of them is more like background noise than anything else, though per Krok's orders, it remains open just in case anyone needs to immediately contact each other. Having split off into pairs, that's put Spinister with Krok, then Crankcase and Misfire, thus leaving Fulcrum to lead around the Dynobot, being one of the few to really bear any patience towards the poor broken-minded lug. Grimlock is able to follow very basic suggestions, and he's tall; if something is out of reach, he can give him basic instructions. Plus, unlike the K-Con, Grimlock can carry around _a lot._

The lab might not be in the greatest condition, but it's big enough for them to have split off and explore. Fulcrum isn't too sure how the others are doing, but he's come across some interesting things that might end up being useful, at least in his mind. He isn't so sure how the others are doing in that regard.

"I guess that about takes care of this place," Fulcrum murmurs, peering over the work done to sweep up what leftovers they could scrape up. "You Grimlock am tired?"

There's a harsh snuffling sound from the Dynobot's vents. "Mmm. Me Grimlock, _strong._ "

"Right. My bad." A faint smile passes over the K-Classer's expression, a little bit of fondness in it. Once upon a time, the legends of the Dynobots and their ability to tear apart Decepticons certainly used to instil fear into Fulcrum, but after spending some time with the more-or-less brain dead Grimlock? Well...

Well, he's kind of adorable. Although technically Grimlock is their prisoner and their ticket back to Cybertron, Fulcrum feels more like his caretaker these days than anything else. And no one seems to have the ability to really treat _Grimlock_ with any true cruelty.

Not that it'd be a good idea in the first place.

At any rate, Fulcrum continues to lead the way, opening a door to the next room over. He pauses only to watch Grimlock struggle to fit through the door with his enormous stature by comparison. The entire laboratory was obviously not constructed with the intent of someone much larger than the average mech.

"Sorry," Fulcrum instinctively apologizes, earning only a snort in return that could probably mean _whatever_ in Grimlock's limited language skills.

Turning to face the new room, it seems to be generally very empty, save for a few beakers of various, unknown chemicals. Fulcrum is, admittedly, interested in analyzing the contents in some way. He probably would need to make use of the medbay to determine that, but still, it could be useful! 

The floor shakes with every step of Grimlock's weight. It's a subtle thump and tremble, but that's more because Fulcrum is just used to his company by now. Suffice it to say, the delicately balanced beakers are _not_ , and one starts to topple over.

"Eep!" Fulcrum immediately dashes over, hands out in an attempt to catch the glass. Gravity wins out and the beaker crashes into the floor, the contents spilling. Apparently, this also means a vapor rising, evaporating off of the cold floor, causing his vents to cycle the strange vapor in.

Usually, it wouldn't be an issue, but it causes his vents to stutter and he coughs, optics wide in surprise. 

" _Fulcrum?_ " he hears Krok immediately call him out.

"I, uh--" The K-Con tries to cycle his vents to clear them out. "F-fine, just fine. Something spilled and it got into my vents."

" _Hmm._ "

"It's fine," Fulcrum tries to assure.

Krok gives a disgruntled noise over their commlink. " _Do you know what was in whatever it was that spilled?_ "

"Er. No?"

" _Then stay put. Spinister and I are coming. Crankcase, Misfire -- keep finding what you can. When you're done, get your afts back to the ship._ "

Knowing that arguing is pointless, Fulcrum gives a soft sigh. "All right. I won't move from this room."

A moment of silence passes as he stands, peering down at the broken glass. No sense in remaining idle; Fulcrum gives a sigh and fetches an empty crate not far from him, starting to gently arrange the remaining beakers and vials. Very quickly, though, he starts to feel his plating warm up, an all-too-familiar sensation of heat crawling across his abdomen and down to his crotch.

Sometimes his charge can run a little high. It's natural, it happens, but that's a bit out of _no where._ He quietly grumbles to himself; now's hardly the time to get worked up. Quick, think about something unappealing. An Autobot or something? He remembers videos and pictures, being well educated about Optimus Prime. Right, that should do it. Their eternal enemy, Optimus Prime, with his broad chest and intense optics and...

And that's totally not helping.

Okay, something else. Someone he actually knows and hates.

...Tarn? Okay, eek, that's a little terrifying. 

The thought doesn't make himself feel any less turned on, though. Not that he _finds_ the insane D.J.D. leader attractive -- he _doesn't_ \-- but he still feels incredibly off his game.

His hands tremble a little and he finds he has to quickly set a beaker down. With a frustrated, uncomfortable groan, he puts his head into his hands and tries to focus on cycling air through his vents, which hiccups and turns into strained pants and whines. The temperature in his body only rises.

Slowly, Grimlock approaches, leaning in and giving a small grunt. Fulcrum immediately jerks away. "Ah, d-don't, Grimlock. Don't."

The Dynobot's red optics dim and he gives a disgruntled rumble, as if the K-Con had just seriously hurt him in some way.

"Pit, I'm sorry. Don't give me that look. I just, um. I don't feel well." Fulcrum offers a wary smile. "I feel bad."

Grimlock gives another soft growl in his engine, but he says nothing. It could be a noise of acknowledgement, but it's hard for Fulcrum to tell.

Really, the way he sees it, the easiest thing would be to just go back to the ship and deal with this _personally._ Still, he waits as patiently as he can, trying to just focus on staring at the table in front of him and leaning against it.

When he hears Krok and Spinister enter, he immediately lifts up his head and stares at both of them, then exhales sharply. 

"Him Fulcrum feel bad," Grimlock offers.

The words earn a strange look from Krok before he turns to face Fulcrum. "Well, he's saying more words now."

There's a brief, shy grin from Fulcrum before he cringes. The heat in his body is almost too much. If it wasn't a damned embarrassing idea, he'd probably just take care of the charge here and now -- but definitely not in front of the others. 

Immediately, Spinister approaches, giving him a look before grabbing him by the chin. The K-Con squeaks a little, optics widening, trembling as he tries to not react, but the warmth in his body only _increases_ at the medic's touch and he isn't sure what to do. Not while Spinister inspects him, poking and prodding him and making Fulcrum squirm.

"Core temperature's up," Spinister notes. "You have a charge going. But you probably noticed that." Fulcrum tries to not cringe at the fact that the medic basically openly stated in front of _Krok_ that he's turned on right now. "Open your mouth."

"Uh?" Fulcrum jerks his head back.

"I'm gonna see if I can collect a sample and see what your vents cycled in," Spinister clarifies. "Gonna have to analyze it on the ship, but might help."

Warily, he opens his mouth, uncertain of what else to do as the medic effectively swabs his mouth. He tries to not gag as it presses against the back of his throat, but it's over as quickly as it happens.

"Take him back to the W.A.P. and do what you have to," Krok orders Spinister. "The rest of us will finish here and come back as soon as possible. Be thorough."

 

-=-=-

 

Once they had returned to the _Weak Anthropic Principle_ , Fulcrum immediately requested that he go back to his room. Although Spinister briefly gave him a skeptical look -- after all, he _knew_ what Fulcrum is feeling, more or less -- eventually he nodded and stated he'd come fetch him later for a more thorough exam after hopefully getting more information out of the swab test.

At the confirmation, Fulcrum had fled immediately to his room, shutting the door. Now? Now he can sigh in relief and get rid of this inappropriately timed charge. He stumbles to his recharge slab, crawling up on it as he opens his interface panel with a whimper. Already, he feels a trickle of lubricant down his thigh, and his spike juts out immediately, curved and painfully erect. _Pit_ , he really is thoroughly charged!

Time to deal with it. 

He presses his cheek against the cool metal of the berth, lifting himself up slightly with his knees and spreading his thighs. Two fingers immediately dip into his slick valve, curling and _oh_ , that feels much better than he remembers it. Everything is horridly sensitive and feels like his mind is just full of static already. This, ah, should hopefully not take long. 

So he plunges his fingers in, thrusting hard and fast. With his other hand, he slides his palm against his spike, flicking his thumb against the head. Fulcrum moans, squirming against his own handiwork. Biting his lower lip, he presses a third finger into himself, feeling the rim of his own valve stretch to accommodate. He turns his wrist, still jerking off his own spike.

More. Just a bit more--

" _Mm!_ " Fulcrum presses his forehead against the berth as he bucks his hips forward against his own hands, feeling his valve clench around his fingers, his spike spurting across his berth. 

There. That should do it.

But it doesn't. 

The heat should be leaving his body, his plating starting to cool. His systems should be settling peacefully, relaxing, but they aren't. He still feels all... all _worked up!_ What's the matter with himself?

For a moment, he wonders if he should go find Spinister, then immediately retracts that idea. No, no no, clear he just needs a little bit of extra help! Wriggling around for a moment, Fulcrum reaches under his berth, groping blindly until he tugs out a drawer. He rummages about inside until he pulls it out.

It's a toy he's made for himself. Not like it's hard to do, making your own self-servicing equipment; get enough of the right parts and a small motor, and you're in business. In this case, it's probably for the best that he uses it. It _should_ do the trick.

He's still well lubed up enough that he doesn't need to work very hard on sliding the fake spike into himself. It earns a stifled groan, Fulcrum's optics dimming as he works it inside of himself. Slowly, he pumps it inside of himself, making sure it's comfortable enough. Good, very good. This should be simple enough to solve with a bit more technical assistance.

The toy turns on, beginning its pleasant vibration inside of his slick valve. Fulcrum lets out a low whine, jerking his hips off of the berth and into the air, feeling the device hum against his sensory nodes. _Yes yes yes_ , that's good! He grabs onto the base firmly, shuddering as he starts to pump it again, grinding up against the nodes inside.

That's more like it. With a satisfied sigh, he feels himself lubricate _more_ and his spike throb. Heat pools in his belly and he knows he's getting close. The edges of his plating tingle. Although he's already at his limits, Fulcrum still tries to spread out his thighs more, panting through his vents as his hips bounce off of his recharge slab and eagerly against the vibrating object he's shoved into himself. Quickly, he starts to stroke his own spike again, rolling into the contact and chasing after his overload.

It hits him again, and he _moans_ , valve walls squeezing over the device and his spike ejaculating once more. Immediately, he turns off the toy, letting himself rest his head again his berth.

Cool air cycles in and out of him, but his core temperature isn't changing. There's still a charge, his systems still overworked and eager for _more._ He can't... he can't seem to get rid of the charge! He's still turned on! What's wrong?!

"Hey Fulcrum, I'm gonna come in," Spinister announces from the other side of the door.

"Don'tdothat!" the K-Con practically shrieks, his optics widening and his face a little horrified.

"Well, if you're self-servicing, I'm not surprised. Kinda why I'm here, actually." Without waiting for actual permission, Spinister just barges into the room and immediately approaches Fulcrum, hardly put off by the fact that the K-Classer still has the object shoved up inside of him, his rim tight over the base. "C'mon, we got a little meeting to talk about your problem. Probably wanna take that out first."

Briefly, Fulcrum is just frozen, staring at Spinister. Only, the medic has his optics locked onto the K-Con, showing that he isn't budging until Fulcrum finally caves in. With a noise of embarrassment, Fulcrum winces and lifts his hips a little as he pulls the toy out, setting it aside for now.

No words are exchanged; Spinister is just taking Fulcrum by the arm and leading him off. It earns a small _eep_ as he barely remembers to shut his interface panel as he stumbles into the hallway, dragged off by the medic. He shudders against the contact on his plating. This is seriously the last thing that he needs right now!

Eventually, he finds himself stumbling into Krok's room, his optics squinting in confusion. Almost everyone is here, and really the only missing person is Grimlock. While it almost seems like Krok has a grim expression, Crankcase is more contemplative and Misfire is twiddling his thumbs and avoiding any optic-to-optic contact. He's baffled; _Pit_ he feels warmer, how can he feel warmer?

"Grimsie is napping in the cargo bay," Misfire pipes up.

There's a slow exhale from Krok. "Good. Or, rather, as good at this gets."

"Uh." Words. Thinking. Why is it so _hard?_ Fulcrum frowns. "What's going on?"

"It's about the stuff you breathed in. Yeah." Spinister keeps holding onto Fulcrum, which is probably for the best otherwise he has not much strength to stand up on his own right now. "Turns out that when the liquid was broken out of its container and you breathed that stuff in, it was little nanites. I had a look. They're gonna just keep building up your internal charge. You were trying to get rid of it by self-servicing, right?"

Fulcrum cringes. "Do you _have_ tell everyone?"

"This is important," Krok informs him gruffly. "If that charge keeps building, Spinister reported that it has a good chance of burning out essential nerves."

"Like...?"

"Oh, you know. Being able to move your limbs, the connections between your voice box and your mouth so you can speak... that sort of thing," Spinister clarifies. "So the way I see it, the best thing is to get it out of your system until the nanites break down finally."

"Um. All right?" Fulcrum looks puzzled. "So let's do that. Breaking down the nanites."

Spinister shrugs. "Well, we're gonna have to frag it out of you to do that."

"I-- _what?!_ " Now, Fulcrum jerks his arm away from the medic, only to have him stumble back and lose his footing. Fortunately, Krok is quick enough to grab him by the shoulders. The K-Con's plating on his back almost shuffles and clicks at the new contact, causing him to grit his teeth and wish he could control himself better. Slowly, Krok guides him to sit down at the edge of his personal berth. "Please tell me Spinister suddenly discovered a horrible sense of humor?" He mumbles to his commanding officer, almost downright pleading.

"We talked about it," Krok tells him frankly. "Spinister told me that with a normal medbay with normal supplies could probably just put something together, but we _don't_ have a normal medbay."

"Could try to make a cure, but there's no guarantee it'd work," Spinister adds in airily.

"Hence, we'd be wasting what few resources we have," Krok says, his tone giving way to some guilt. "Especially if his cure _didn't_ work."

Despite how he feels, how blasted charged he is, Fulcrum can still _think_ and feel properly for the most part. They can't just fix him like a normal ship, no, they have to interface with him to fix this? He draws away from Krok sharply, sputtering out, "So, _what_ , you want me to just. Just let you all have a go at me like I'm some kind of service drone?!"

"Do you think I'd agree to do this for _fun?_ " Krok narrows his optics. "I want your permission to make sure you won't break down because of a nutjob's leftover science project."

"I..." Awkwardly, Fulcrum pulls his legs up to his chest, chewing on his lower lip. The charge in him is so _fierce_ that it almost hurts, how badly he wants to overload. He can feel himself lubricate despite his panel being closed and it's awful. He doesn't want to do this and just be some-- some group's fragtoy! A whimper squeezes out of him and he can't help but tremble a little, both from the bothersome thought about the others 'facing him and how he just feels physically.

But he knows it's true: Krok would never agree to this if it wasn't to help him in some fashion.

"S'not like we're here to do anything, you know, _weird_ or freaky on you. Like, I don't know, jam my gun in you," Misfire tries to offer as helpfully as possible, which only causes the K-Con to wince at the mental image. "What? I'm being honest! We're not here to hurt you or anything, pinhead."

Crankcase snorts. "Just wanna get it out of the way as much as you do."

There's a small pause as Fulcrum thinks it over, then gives out a shaky sigh. No, they're not like most other Decepticons and Krok definitely wouldn't allow any harm to come to his unit. They're just here to help him.

"How... how would this work?" He stammers out.

"Hmm, well, the way I figured it is that the more charge we generate to you, then we can burn out the nanites. I dunno how much interfacing it's gonna take, but I might be able to measure it along the way," Spinister says. "We should probably start small, work our way up."

"With your permission," Krok reminds sharply. "No one does anything without his approval. Got it?"

"Sssso, where do we start?" Misfire pipes up curiously.

An uncomfortable silence settles into the room and Fulcrum feels all sets of optics on him. He squirms uncomfortably, both at the attention and just how he feels. If there's one thing he's certain of, though, sitting around is only going to make it worse. Something-- _someone_ needs to do something. Frankly, he's halfway tempted to just start taking care of things himself!

They keep looking at him, as if he's supposed to say something. As if he's the one that's supposed to tell them what to do.

He shudders and tries his best to not make optical contact with anyone, blurting out a name. "Misfire...? Would you, uh. Maybe-- would you touch me?"

A little more quickly than Fulcrum anticipates, Misfire makes his way over, wings twitching in some form of nervousness. Their optics lock briefly before the K-Con glances away; it's hard to swallow down his embarrassment with the entire situation.

But Misfire doesn't ask anything awkward and he's eternally grateful. There's a level of impatience between the both of them, Fulcrum shivering as he feels the jet run his hands down the front of his midsection, no hesitating to cup him between the thighs. To his continuing sense of humiliation, there's a strangled whine before Fulcrum bucks his hips hard into Misfire's hand. 

Following the motion, the palm against his crotch starts grinding against his panelling. Not that Fulcrum needs much incentive to get himself back open. A small noise squeezes out of him and he lets his interface panel open again, feeling his spike slide out free with lubrication beading on the tip and his valve exposed, wet enough to be dripping already.

"Hmm." Spinister's moved in closer suddenly, leaning in and touching his cheek lightly. Before Fulcrum can think to stop himself, he leans into nuzzle against the fingers there. It doesn't make the medic pause his intentions. "Probably could stand to be a little warmer. Tell me to stop if you need me to."

"I, uh-- _eep._ " Yellow optics widen again as he's suddenly lifted up by the much larger mech, arms hooked under his knees and forcing his thighs open, completely exposing himself to the others. His back is pressed up against Spinister's front, and every bit of him wriggling just scrapes his back almost _nicely_ against the stronger mech's abdomen. " _Um_."

"Bad?" Spinister just asks him, leaning in to press his mask against Fulcrum's neck.

"No," Fulcrum decides, wincing and still high-strung at how blatantly his equipment is being shown off. "M-Misfire?"

"Oh, I've got this. No worries, loser," Misfire assures as much as he can, though the _smirk_ he's wearing certainly makes him smug.

Still, he has no reason to not trust Misfire or anyone else. No one will do anything wihtout his permission, like Krok said. 

That brings some more comfort to him.

Peering warily down between his own legs, he watches Misfire kneel down in front of him. One hand cups under one of Fulcrum's thighs, the other palming a part of his aft, earning a surprised squeak from the K-Con. Satisfied and grinning, Misfire leans in, unabashedly sliding his tongue against the well-lubricated rim of his valve. 

_That_ causes a strangled mewl from Fulcrum, his hips twitching and going practically _no where_ in Spinister's grip. But he doesn't fight to get free, doesn't demand they stop. He doesn't want them to. 

"Keep going," Fulcrum exhales, trying to not sound too needy and utterly failing.

At the confirmation, Misfire nuzzles in closer, lightly pressing his tongue into the entrance in front of him. Fulcrum just lets himself relax slowly, his head tipping back against Spinister's larger frame. He moans, slowly getting more comfortable with the idea of everyone needing to pleasure him so he won't, you know, breakdown or worse. In the grand scheme of things, matters could be a lot worse. He could be purging his tanks grossly or-- or something.

No, instead, Misfire is mouthing away at his valve, licking him up from the inside, making hungry little slurping sounds. A trembling sigh comes out and he settles his hand to the top of the jet's helm. Yes, he decides, this _is_ a good situation to be in. This is a good choice, this is a good crew, and sure it'd been kind of a weird suggestion at first -- _fragging_ the nanites out of him -- but now? Now this is great. This is the best plan. He likes this plan.

Misfire's lips press against a part of the rim and he starts to suckle away at the spot, hard and sharp. Fulcrum squeals, squirming more in Spinister's firm grasp. _Yes good please_ are all words that run through his mind briefly before it's like a bout of static making it blank. All he can groan out is the jet's name, trying to jerk his hips more towards that stupidly skilled mouth of his. No more intelligent thoughts or string of words even come to mind other than how _good_ it all is. As he dribbles more lubricant, Misfire seems to just be eager about lapping it all up, leaning a bit closer to start pressing his tongue back inside of the valve.

" _Ah!_ " Fulcrum's optics brighten abruptly as he squirms uselessly in Spinister's hold. His valve spasms, trying to clench around Misfire's tongue as he overloads. The pleasure that runs through his body and mind is more impactful than when he'd been trying to take care of it on his own, and without even pause, Misfire keeps licking up every bit of the lubricant that comes out, humming merrily as he does so.

But the heat doesn't leave. There's still that perpetual feeling of arousal.

"Pit," he hisses out.

"Not enough for ya, pinhead?" Misfire murmurs between his thighs.

No. It isn't. As wonderful as the jet's mouth feels on his equipment, he needs something else. Something more. He arches his back slightly against Spinister, shivering before he finally says, "Berth, please."

The request is fulfilled as Spinister carries him to the recharge slab, setting him down to sit on the edge. For just a moment, he glances up at the others in the room, and it's hard to determine what anyone's thinking or feeling. It's probably safe to assume that Crankcase is generally indifferent or just grouchy with the situation, but he's been watching, leaning fairly causally against the wall. Eventually, Fulcrum's optics end up locking Krok's, and he lowers his helm slightly. He has no idea if Krok's been engrossed with the entire display, or just. You know. Grossed out.

Hard to say, but he said they're all here to help him.

Okay. Okay, then.

"Krok?" Fulcrum tries, tapping his fingers nervously against the berth.

His commanding officer approaches, looking down at him, reserved. Not disgusted or shocked, just... _patient._ "What do you need me to do?"

"Probably something more than what Misfire did," Spinister recommends, still taking an entirely clinical approach.

"I don't think I did half-bad, considering how he sounded and all," Misfire says a bit defensively.

There's a shake of Spinister's head. "Not really in the way of how much he enjoyed it--"

"Can we not talk about how much I liked it?" Fulcrum groans miserably, covering his face with his hands.

"--but how much of a charge we need to get out of him and give to him. There was a better charge with an extra body than just one," Spinister finishes his suggestion.

Granted, Fulcrum knows that the strange idiotic-but-brilliant medic is just talking with his best interest in mind, but frag if it isn't just incredibly embarrassing. He sighs a little and squirms again on the berth, wincing as he feels arousal burning through his nerves.

"'Face me?" he finally manages out. "Uh. Please. I mean, if you don't--"

"It's fine," Krok tells him, helping Fulcrum scoot back enough to give the other some room on the berth. 

There isn't any repulsion in Krok's actions or words as they get closer. Instead, Krok is continually in control of himself, accepting this as part of his duty to keep his humble little unit alive. As ridiculous as the situation is, Fulcrum's grateful for him and the rest of this strange crew. Frankly, any other Decepticon group would either guffaw at the situation or take advantage of it.

They're doing neither.

Fulcrum finds himself tugged into Krok's lap, trying to not shiver as he hears the other's panel click back and the spike sliding free. There'd been a certain kind of eagerness from Misfire and that had proved kind of endearing in a way. While he supposes that he can't expect that out of Krok, he'd be lying if he didn't think that, maybe, he'd want his commanding officer to enjoy this in some way.

And he already does feel his valve clench and tremble in anticipation of having that inside of him.

Warily, Fulcrum curls his fingers into Krok's shoulders, the pressure negligible from the technician. There's a brief curious look from Krok, but wordlessly, Fulcrum gets to work: he rolls his hips forward, sliding his slick valve against the base of the spike in front of him. It doesn't slide _in_ , but rather he's just slowly starting to grind his entrance against the length of the erection in front of him, watching as it becomes more aroused with how Fulcrum is shifting against Krok. As a result, the spike twitches with more interest, glistening from the lubrication that the K-Con's been spreading against him.

Tightly, Krok grabs him by the hips, growling into his audial, "Careful."

The plating on Fulcrum's back twitches and he squirms closer. "Please, sir," he mumbles.

Maybe it's the way he says _please_ or how he says _sir_ , but either way, Krok's engine rumbles. Fulcrum is forced up a little by Krok's superior strength, then slowly he starts to be lowered down, feeling the tip start to slip inside. He groans, progressively caring less about feeling shy about this whole damned thing and just accepting how much he really, really desires to be fragged right now. Bit by bit, Krok starts to press inside, remaining patient all the while.

"Still recommend another body," he hears Spinister comment.

" _Fine_ , I'll get on this. Tell me to shove off if you need to." Fulcrum doesn't have to look to know that it's Crankcase and his grousing, the pilot climbing up behind him. He isn't really sure how Crankcase intends to get involved, but--

Fulcrum gives a wordless murmur of surprise as he feels a hand carefully slide up his neglected spike. _Oh._ All right. That's how.

It almost burns his nerves a little as Crankcase gets closer, venting in small huffs of his annoyance or irritation or whatever it is that he's feeling that could probably be construed as grumpy in some way. Still, the air is hot against his plating and it makes him quiver as he slowly slides down Krok's spike, the girth stretching him out pleasantly with no pain. There's hardly any space for him as he's crowded between the two of them, Krok pulling him down onto his lap and Crankcase pressing against his back; the two bodies make everything burning hot. As Fulcrum makes his way down, Crankcase's careful hand slides against his spike, thumbing the head before working lower again. It's already almost too much, his head getting static-filled once more, dizzy with arousal. All he can consider right now is how much he wants _everything_ , that Crankcase should keep touching him and he can just let Krok frag him as hard as he wants.

He moans, feeling himself finally take the spike inside to the hilt, the back of his thighs touching Krok's hips. Lazily, Fulcrum drapes his arms over his commanding officer's shoulders, hips twitching as Crankcase gently squeezes him and continues to jerk him off. "Sir," Fulcrum vents out, rolling his hips eagerly.

"How does it feel?" Krok asks him, pulling his hips back as much as he can until he presses back in. "Talk to me. That's an order."

"Feels _good_." His voice pitches a little, in between a hand palming his spike and Krok working his way back inside. "You feel really good, sir. Bigger than I thought you'd be."

There's another sharp purr of Krok's engine. That _has_ to be a good reaction. "You think about me?"

Primus, that's embarrassing. "Sometimes? _Mm!_ " Fulcrum's back arches, body jerking as Krok rolls back into him a little more eagerly. "Sometimes," Fulcrum repeats, a little more firmly.

It's a little hard, in his opinion, to not think about your commanding officer fondly, considering that Krok's approach to leading his crew is certainly unique amongst the Decepticons. He certainly cares, and he has no qualms about making that known in a lot of ways, how protective he gets and making sure everyone's functioning. Krok is attached and that could be dangerous, but he makes it his advantage.

It's pretty difficult to not admire him.

"Sorry," Fulcrum mutters, letting out a steady whine as Krok draws back and thrusts back into him. " _Nnh!_ Is that weird...?"

"I asked. Not bothered." Short sentences, emphasized by every moment that Krok is rolling his hips to keep sliding out, sliding in. There's a small, amused chuckle against Fulcrum's helm. "Look at this ship. Look at your _crew._ You'll have a hard time, _mm._ Being strange among us."

Somewhere between the mess of it all -- words and Krok's thick spike going _in_ and _out_ and Crankcase's hands still working away on him -- he can't think of what to say. Fulcrum's mind is mixed up with just feeling good and letting out mewls of approval as Krok starts to buck harder into him, as if he's eager to force the sounds out of the K-Con. Careful mechanic hands toy along with the tip of Fulcrum's spike and there's a squeak at the fondling. Something somewhere meets Crankcase's approval, he assumes, since he starts to feel him grind against the technician's aft roughly.

" _Ah!_ " It's closing in on him, quickly and suddenly. The edges of overload are there and Fulcrum's fingers clutch Krok's back. "Sir," is all he can think of to blurt out, and both of Crankcase's hands slide around him, a fingertip flicking the head of his spike. Krok doesn't stop, just keeps pistoning in and out, his engine practically snarling against Fulcrum's chest.

Fulcrum finally cries out, squirming between the two of them. There's a spurt between Crankcase's fingers, splattering between the K-Con and the tactician. His valve squeezes over Krok, spasming, not subtle about how intensely Fulcrum is finishing. There's a moment in which Krok has to struggle to pause, giving Fulcrum a questioning look.

Krok hasn't overloaded, but he's stopping.

"Don't stop." Slim legs hook around Krok's waist and Fulcrum stares at him, shuddering. "Just-- just keep going. I still..."

He still feels insanely turned on and it's agonizing, but Krok continues after hearing his request. A strong hand continues to clutch his hip and Krok roughly thrusts into him, the second hand stroking under a thigh. There's something like an impatient huff behind Fulcrum as Crankcase drags his messy fingers down the bronze mech's chest, rubbing his panel against Fulcrum's rear. There isn't even a care in the world about that, and he tries to think of a way to practically invite Crankcase to just keep doing _that_ , it's enough right now to have him nearby. 

Harder and hotter vents are pressed against Fulcrum's helm from Krok as he continues to thrust inside, clearly on the edge himself. Fulcrum knows this is really about burning out the nanites, but he finds some satisfaction that he's able to get him off in some way. There's another little wriggle from Fulcrum and he whines against Krok's neck, " _Please, sir._ "

That seems to spark something in him, because Krok bucks much more sharply, engine roaring as he finally overloads, releasing lubrication deep inside of Fulcrum after the third and final thrust. It feels _good_ and satisfying, though Krok gives a small sigh.

"That's not exactly how this is supposed to work."

"I know, I know." Fulcrum squeaks as he feels Krok slide out, fluid dripping out after him. What next? What can he do next?

Though he supposes, wryly, the question is more _who_ to do next. Uh. Hmm.

"Spin?" he calls out, feeling his body trembling after the overload. "Crankcase, uh. If you could, come around to the front."

Without anyone to really lean on as Crankcase pulls away, Fulcrum startlingly finds himself tipping forward; he manages to catch himself by the hands, aft in the air and his valve on display as it's still dripping from what'd been left by Krok. He should be embarrassed. Before this whole thing, he probably would have been, but right now, he doesn't _care._ He just... wants.

When Crankcase comes close enough, Fulcrum just silently grabs for his hips, leaning in to nuzzle between his legs. It earns a startled hitch in the way the grumpy pilot vents, but the K-Con tells him, "It's fine. Just open up."

" _Whatever._ If you're sure."

Despite his surly behavior, once the panel slides back and Crankcase's spike pressurizes, it's fairly evident how aroused he'd been. Not that it was any secret, really, to Fulcrum; his aft is kind of proof of that. A hand is kept to one side of Crankcase's hip, the other loosely curling around the erection in front of him. Then, he slides his tongue lightly over the tip, just tasting for the moment.

Behind him, he feels Spinister pressing his thumbs into his valve, stretching the rim suddenly. It doesn't hurt, but it's a surprise, earning a soft yelp from the K-Con. "Spin--?!" Fulcrum stammers out.

"Just gotta make sure I can fit." Spinister squints his optics as he peers down, looking right into the exposed valve without any hesitation. "Yeah, okay. We're good. You're kinda small, so I wanted to make sure you weren't gonna get damaged or anything." 

Makes sense, but _eek._ Fulcrum tries to stay still as Spinister pulls his thumbs back, watching over his shoulder as the medic's spike slides out. _Wow_ , okay, he's glad that Spinister checked because _that_ is big. Maybe it's the nanites working him over, maybe it's something else, but he's finding himself eager that he's getting _that_ put into him. 

He turns his attention back towards Crankcase, leaning in to just exhale his vents against the spike in front of him. Spinister's hands hold onto his hips as he's being adjusted just slightly position-wise. There's a small twitch of the pilot's hips, which may be something of approval. Leaning in, Fulcrum starts to mouth along the base of the shaft wetly, pausing only to moan as Spinister starts to press inside, taking his time about it as the head slides inside. It probably doesn't hurt that he's still incredibly well lubricated from when Krok had been there to, uh, assist him.

Finally, Fulcrum starts to take the tip into his mouth, slowly rolling his tongue against it. There's a strained rumble from Crankcase, as if he's reluctant to admit that he's enjoying it. In a way, there's something satisfying about the behavior. Gradually, he works his way down, then pulls his head back, sucking along the way. Another grunt is emitted from the mechanic, and he places his hand to the back of Fulcrum's head. Not demanding anything and certainly not shoving his head down, but resting there, as if some confirmation that _yes_ he should keep going.

He whines, despite his full mouth; Spinister is still taking time to press in, and he's unbelievably big. The medic is careful to be sure that no harm comes to him and silently Fulcrum is grateful for his attentiveness as the thickness of him continues to go in. He's absolutely _certain_ that when Spinister is entirely inside that the tip is butting against the top of his valve, pressing against his ceiling node. Fulcrum almost chokes on Crankcase's spike at that, curling his fingers tightly into the mechanic's hips. _Pit_ , it makes his plating tingle insanely, the edges searing with need. As Spinister starts to pull his hips back, Fulcrum squirms and continues to lower his head, gradually working more of Crankcase into his mouth, trying to be patient about it. The strained sound that Crankcase gives implies that Fulcrum isn't the only one struggling with that aspect.

Gradually, Fulcrum manages to work into a pace of a consistent bobbing of his head, sucking as he draws his head back. He can feel the slightest curve of Crankcase's fingers against his helm as he refrains from demanding anything of him even physically. Silently, Fulcrum can definitely appreciate how damned respectful everyone is being.

He moans against the spike in his throat, trembling as he feels Spinister pull out, then shove his way back inside. It's a bit rougher than Krok had been, but it doesn't hurt much and the medic certainly knows what he's doing in terms of just _hitting_ the ceiling node right and causing him no damage. As there's a more consistent pace with Spinister's hips hitting up against his aft, Fulcrum's nose finally bumps against Crankcase's plating as he completely takes the entirety of his length orally. As he swallows against the thickness of it, he can taste him, the strange sweet tang of lubricant.

Abruptly, Spinister's fingers tighten around his hips and pull him back as he slams in one more time, overloading deep inside of Fulcrum. Spinister's release is hot and filling, but with how much space he already takes up, _most_ of it ends up running down his thighs instead. The sensation makes him struggle and choke around Crankcase for a moment, finding himself finishing with his valve trying to contract around the girth and failing with how stretched out he is. 

"Uh, sorry." Spinister sounds like he means it, lightly stroking his talented fingers down Fulcrum's sides in some attempt to be soothing. "Kinda just happened. You feel good, though."

Although he himself is determined to keep sucking down on the pilot's spike, Crankcase actually pushes him off of it. Fulcrum clears his throat, his voice feeling sticky as he murmurs out, "Thanks? Thank you. Uh. It's still going, though. I still feel, um, worked up." He tries to peer around the glistening, incredibly erect spike in front of him to look up at Crankcase. "I can keep going at that, if..."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather overload at the other end." There's a small testy sigh from Crankcase, which Fulcrum can't really blame him for; it's a bit hard to be patient when one is probably on the brink of finishing. "If you're okay with that, of course."

" _Mm!_ " Fulcrum jerks and whimpers as Spinister pulls out, trying to ignore what feels like another gush of fluid trickling out from his valve. "Sure. Don't mind."

At the confirmation, Crankcase lets go of him, letting Fulcrum support himself on by the palms of his hands. His vents are cycling hard, panting loudly. Primus, he's overloaded five times so far tonight, and his body still wants to keep going! How much more is it going to take? Tired as he feels, he's still wanting more. He feels almost limp as a pair of hands guide him back and he's being arranged in Crankcase's lap, feeling his wet spike slide against his lower back. The other Decepticon is running hot and it's easier to tell with the engine against his back.

Against his audial, he hears Crankcase address someone else, sounding wryly amused as opposed to his usual tetchy mood: "You want in on this?"

Fulcrum looks up and he feels oblivious, a little flattered, and a fair bit flustered as he locks optics with Misfire, whose hand has currently stopped midstroke on self-servicing, fingers firmly gripped around his own spike.

Rather than being embarrassed at all, Misfire just flashes him a broad grin and says, "Guess that's up to you, loser."

Still feeling exhausted, Fulcrum just lets Crankcase continue to manhandle him, lifting him up slightly. The tip of the mechanic's spike is edging against the rim of his valve, but he's _not_ pushing in. He bites his lower lip, trying hard to not become impatient. "Not opposed," Fulcrum manages to mumble out, the plating on his back twitching and trembling. " _Ah._ Wh-what did you have in mind, Crankcase?"

"Hm." Fingers tease the edges of the dripping valve, earning a whine from the slim technician. Crankcase snorts softly against his neck. "Think you could fit both of us? You _are_ kind of puny."

Fulcrum gives a tired, quiet laugh. "Well. I'm feeling pretty loosened up from Spin, so..." He holds up his arms to invite Misfire. "Probably. If it hurts, you'll know pretty fast."

The jet joins them very quickly, scooting himself near so that Fulcrum is, essentially, trapped between both of their bodies. Listless arms place themselves around Misfire's neck and the chatty flier nuzzles up close, lightly nipping at neck cables. "This is gonna be nice and snug, hm?" is mused against Fulcrum's jawline, just as the head of another spike prods at the opposing edge of the K-Con's valve rim.

"Yep" is all Fulcrum can think of to say, feeling a little speechless in the way of things. This is probably not the brightest idea, but he _wants_ to try. He wants both of them, and he knows it'll stretch him to his limits, but right now he's not thinking about any real logistics other than _sure_ it seems like a great idea to have both of them. Why not. Maybe that'll burn out what's been driving him so hot.

Both Crankcase and Misfire hold him, carefully lowering Fulcrum inch by inch as the pair of them start to press inside. Krok? Krok had been pretty big, Spinister _bigger_ than that, and with these two, this is testing his limits for sure. Fulcrum squeaks, thankfully too tired to wriggle in their hold as both of their spikes work their way in. Crawling across his cheek are Misfire's lips, eventually covering his own for a very wet kiss. Too spent to really press back in kind, Fulcrum mostly just groans and opens his mouth, letting the jet do most of the work. 

Just as Misfire starts to pull back, he catches Fulcrum's lower lip, giving it a hard suck before letting go. In turn, the K-Con shivers, his legs twitching as he continues to be lowered down on both of them. It isn't long before both of them are deep inside, pressed up tight against each other with his valve stretched around both of them. Fulcrum's vents cycle harder and he buries his face against Misfire's neck.

"How you doing there, pinhead?" Misfire purrs, giving a shallow thrust of his hips.

" _Uhh_ " is groaned out in return, Fulcrum not having much the mind to give actual words as answers.

"All stuffed full." Misfire chuckles against his helm, rolling into Fulcrum again, Crankcase jerking inside as well; it's uneven, how both they move. They aren't synchronized at all and it's part of the enticement. Someone is always _moving_ inside of Fulcrum. "Couldn't help but start working myself over, listening to you. Watching you." There's a small tremor in the technician's body as Fulcrum listens to Misfire chat away into his audial. "Feeling good?"

A soft hiss escapes Fulcrum as Crankcase bucks a little harder into him. "Uh-huh," he murmurs.

"Glad to hear it. We've got you, loser." Giving him a confident grin, Misfire presses their mouths back together.

Although still limp and drained from the previous overloads, Fulcrum is still able to feel their movements thoroughly. The stretch is like a vague, dull pinch for his valve, but otherwise the lack of rhythm of Crankcase thrusting into him and Misfire taking his leisurely time is interesting. No coordination, and they're both grinding up against his sensory nodes. He's able to moan and squeal into Misfire's mouth, still kissing him, letting him take lead.

Their mouths part with Misfire sliding his tongue against Fulcrum's lips. A sharp exhale fading into a sigh is squeezed out of the K-Con as he feels utterly limp between both Crankcase and the jet moving in and out of him. He feels incredibly hot, sticky, and an utter mess; not one of his finer days, but nobody seems to be placing any judgement on that or commenting on his state of being, thankfully.

Instead, he just dims his optics and enjoys the feeling, letting his mouth open as the sounds of his groans continue to escalate louder and louder. Abruptly, his chin is gripped and he feels his head turning to the side, another mouth on his own. He mewls, squirming weakly for a moment before settling into the kiss from Crankcase. It's brief, and teeth rake against his lips, but he doesn't fight back, letting the other Decepticon take charge of it.

He squeaks suddenly, his legs jerking. As Crankcase breaks the kiss, Fulcrum wails, louder than he ever expected he could sound. A strained growl is against the back of his helm while Misfire shudders against his neck, and his valve clenches the both of them tightly, both spikes squeezed. It's ridiculously well timed, but Fulcrum can feel both of them finishing in him, a rush of a hot, wet mess being released into his already overstuffed valve. Fulcrum lets his forehead drop against Misfire's shoulder, panting and whimpering towards the end of his incredible overload.

Crankcase pulls out first, gripping Fulcrum's hips tightly as he's careful about his exit. Just as Misfire starts to slip out, Fulcrum gives a frustrated moan, shifting against the jet. "Are you fragging kidding me...?!" he manages out, trembling in Misfire's hold.

"That wasn't it?" Misfire gives him a look with his wide optics.

"No. No no, it's happening again." Fulcrum shakes his head. The arousal is crawling its way back up in him, his nerves burning. It's tempting to grab for Misfire's spike, to grind himself back down and finish again, but that's not the point! It's _not_ going away, even after that processor-blowing overload he just had. What the hell is it going to take? _More bodies?_

Maybe. Maybe that's going to be it. 

"Spinister?" he calls out wearily.

The medic moves in smoothly, pressing his hand against Fulcrum's forehead. There's a tiny moan and before he can think about it, Fulcrum is trying to nuzzle his cheek against it. 

"What if, um. What if I asked for all of you? Would that work?" Fulcrum tries to not sound like he's pleading, but if begging makes this _stop_ , then Pit yes he'll do it.

"The more the better, so probably." Spinister hasn't stopped looking at him clinically, not in the least perturbed by the situation. Figures; a light glows the wrong way and he freaks out, but if it's a medical situation then Spinister has it together.

Exhaustion is almost claiming Fulcrum at the moment, but he tries to think. It's a struggle, but he plans, still pressing his face against Spinister's hand, his own fingers clutching tiredly at Misfire. "Floor. Move me to the floor, please," Fulcrum murmurs out, feeling like his words are melding together.

Two pairs of hands help him down, with Misfire's clutching at Fulcrum's shoulders and Spinister helping along the waist. He shudders and feels a little bit of shame as lubricants dribble down his legs, making a pretty telling trail from the berth to the floor where he now kneels. He makes a mental note to try to make it up to Krok later.

Krok. Ah, right.

He leans forward a little, mumbling his thanks to Misfire who helps support him. Spreading out his thighs a little, he glances over his shoulder at his commanding officer. "Krok. 'Face me again?"

Briefly, there's a concerned and wary look given to the technician before Krok is crouching down behind Fulcrum. Strong arms pull the slimmer Decepticon into his lap, which is helpful considering Fulcrum barely has any strength left to really hold himself up. "Hanging in there?" Krok mutters against him.

"Yeah," Fulcrum leans his head back against Krok's shoulder. "Sorry about the mess."

There's a heavy exhale. "Trust me, that's hardly the biggest worry on my mind right now."

"Mm." There's a faint squirm as one of Krok's hands slips under his thigh, holding it up as a spike noses its way inside. Considering all of the lubricants that have filled him, Krok has no problem slipping inside of his valve. " _Uhn_ ," Fulcrum grunts out. "Misfire?"

"What do you need, loser?"

There's a soft sigh interrupting Fulcrum first as Krok shallowly rolls his hips. "I don't. I don't know, _something?_ " His mind is drawing a blank, and all he can think of is how much his body is burning with arousal and how much he wants this to be done. He's worn out, and he doesn't want to have to decide, he just wants it over with. As good as it all feels, it's wearing him out.

A small _tsk_ is emitted from Misfire, his thumb gripping Fulcrum's chin. "Well, then. Just leave it to me to figure out, hm?"

Despite the fact that Fulcrum has little to no strength left in him, his current position in leaning back against Krok allows him to peer down and watch as Misfire scoots himself onto his back. Gracefully enough, the jet slides his legs over Fulcrum's and subsequently Krok's; with a hand, Misfire carefully aligns Fulcrum's spike so it slides into the jet's valve.

" _Oh._ " A shiver claims Fulcrum's body briefly. That feels _so good_ , his spike inside of someone, yet he finds himself still unable to really move much. Noticing the K-Con's weakness in the moment, Krok amends his usual pace, rolling his hips with more strength. In turn, this causes Fulcrum's hips to shift forward with every movement that Krok takes, allowing him to properly rock in and out of Misfire. The accommodation that both of them take is deeply appreciated.

But it's not _all_ of them, and he's trying to think of how he needs to include the final two. Fulcrum is dizzy by how occupied both his spike and valve are, how Misfire's valve clenches just enough to squeeze him along, and Krok moving enough for two mechs. It's incredibly hard to focus, but he's trying.

"Spin?" he requests. "Uh. Here. Stand here. My left. Crankcase, other side?"

There isn't any commentary or fuss over the directions. Although Crankcase shoots him a skeptical look, both him and Spinister follow the instructions. Frankly, he isn't sure what he's going to do, but he tries to assure himself that he'll figure it out somehow. How he's going to include them, exactly, he isn't too sure. Krok and Misfire have him a little occupied via his interface equipment, but...

But his mouth and hands are free.

Oh. Hm.

He steels himself for the idea, and he has to as his hips are still following the force of Krok's strength's thrusts, his own spike still sliding in and out of Misfire. This is already nearly enough to make him overload _again_ soon, but Pit if he isn't going to find some way of making this work. Carefully, he slides up a hand along Crankcase's hip and groans out, "Open up?"

The mechanic peers down at him, scowling a little more deeply. Then, there's a snort and he opens his panel again, spike sliding out once more. "Give me your hand. I'll do most of the work. You're ready to collapse."

"I'm fine-- _nnh!_ " Fulcrum trembles, his back arching just slightly between Misfire and Krok.

"Listen to him," Krok advises in a low growl.

He relents, lightly curling his hand over the base of Crankcase's length. With a grunt, Crankcase holds onto Fulcrum's wrist and elbow, effectively helping him stay up while the pilot just slowly rolls his hips into Fulcrum's hand. All right. Okay, that'll work. Sure, Fulcrum's hardly doing anything, but that's something.

That leaves him with Spinister, who's picked up on the idea and has had his spike extended again. The surgeon tilts his head, addressing Fulcrum, "Whaddaya want to do?"

"Um. I think..." Weakly, he grips at the side of Spinister's hip, and thankfully the much stronger mech grips his forearm. Leaning in, Fulcrum opens his mouth and hesitantly takes the head of the impressively large spike in front of him into his mouth. There's a little rumble in Spinister as he places his palm against the side of Fulcrum's face, almost affectionately. The surgeon's engine purrs and he lets Fulcrum set his own pace of how far he can go. It isn't much, granted. Not even halfway down and his lips are wrapped tight around the girth, but Pit if Fulcrum isn't trying.

It's at this point that Fulcrum finds all he can do is really just let everyone else do the work. He has nearly no strength left in him, and he's caught in the middle of it all. Somehow, Krok keeps up his pace, thrusting forward with a low growl in his engine, causing Fulcrum to roll into Misfire who gives an encouraging chuckle. That alone has been enough for his nerves to spark pleasurably, but he can feel the warmth radiating from Crankcase's body and the flavor of Spinister in his mouth. With a pace of his own choosing, Crankcase continues to thrust his hips forward, spike sliding along Fulcrum's fingers and palm while the technician swallows and sucks on Spinister, not remotely caring how lewd and loud the slurping noises are. Eventually, he just _lets_ himself be in this moment, giving a muffled moan as he shuts off his optics.

He can revel in the motion of it all, and how patient everyone's been with the situation. No one's hurt him, no one's tried to take advantage of it, and no one's really made fun of him for it, either. Sure, this crew can be quirky and strange, but he values them. Hell, he feels valued _by_ them, even if they have strange ways of showing it sometimes.

It's. It's nice.

Of all of them, Misfire overloads first; he gives a satisfied hiss, tightening his legs around Fulcrum for a brief moment. Mouth still full of Spinister's length, Fulcrum just gives a low whine as he feels the sharper grip of Misfire's valve. Like some kind of twisted domino effect, Fulcrum follows him after, trembling as he feels himself spurt inside of the jet. It's not done, though, not done at all as his body is still heated and he gives a stifled groan, venting hard out of his nose. As Misfire pulls away so that Fulcrum is no longer buried in him, Krok continues to buck forward, engine rumbling against Fulcrum's back.

Against his tongue, he can taste Spinister begin to finish. The surgeon rolls his thumb over the side of Fulcrum's jaw and he can hear Spinister exhale sharply, his plating warming up. Fulcrum swallows again, pulling his head back before pushing forward a little, sucking along the way. It seems to be enough and the medic huffs. Lubricant fills Fulcrum's mouth and he tries to gulp it down as efficiently as he can, but some dribbles down his chin. It's _a lot_ and he has a hard enough time keeping up in his state as he can. Spinister slides out, generously still holding Fulcrum up; he can feel the medic nuzzle the top of his helm.

"Ah--" Fulcrum breathes out, and his mouth is suddenly occupied by someone else's. Even before he turns on his optics to be sure, he's able to conclude that it's Misfire, licking up his chin and kissing him again. He grunts softly against Misfire's lips, his body still following how hard Krok is thrusting into him.

Soon enough, he finds his hand dripping with Crankcase's fresh overload, the mechanic giving a satisfied sound. Both he and Spinister continue to hold him up, and Misfire doesn't pull away just yet, smirking against Fulcrum's mouth and flicking out his tongue to taste him. 

It leaves with Krok to pound away into his sore valve, still hot and wanting and dribbling out fluid to his thighs. Fulcrum whimpers, limply following the other mech's strength. As he feels Krok venting hot air against his plating and growling into his audial, he can still feel other hands on his body from the others. It's warm, just warm enough, and something just triggers it.

Finally, he overloads again, and he hopes for the final time for today. Fulcrum cries out against Misfire's lips, shuddering and jerking as Krok keeps thrusting inside of him, fragging him through the sensation. His valve clenches and trembles and it feels like his entire nervous system is just melting away and his mind turning to white noise. Perhaps due to the increased pressure from Fulcrum's valve, Krok's fingers grip his hips tightly and he slams inside one last time, releasing inside of him. Either way, it's more satisfying than Fulcrum cares to admit right at the moment.

Misfire pulls his mouth away and lets Fulcrum cycle his vents for a minute. There's a tired squirm as Krok pulls out, though the historian doesn't pull his hands away. There's a small tap against Fulcrum's hip from him and Krok asks, "Well?"

"Just... just a second," Fulcrum mumbles, still letting his weight be supported by the others. He debates for a moment, but after another minute, relief sinks in as his plating starts to cool naturally. The charge is lowering and his systems are humming.

He sighs and shuts off his optics again. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm done."

Krok sighs against him and nods. "All right."

Fulcrum doesn't move and he doesn't have to; the others are picking him up and having him sit back against the berth. Wearily, he turns his optics back on, finding himself leaning a good part of his weight against Misfire.

"Nnh." He shifts a little as Spinister lifts up his leg and starts to clean him off. 

"No fussing, loser." Misfire presses a glass against the K-Con's lips, the contents being a humble amount of energon. "Drink up."

Slowly, as Misfire tips the glass, Fulcrum swallows the contents. After all of that and feeling burned out, being refuelled and wiped down is incredible. Not that the energon itself is of high quality, nor is it like going to the washracks, but it's definitely better than nothing.  


"How do you feel?" Krok asks.

Once he's done downing the energon, Fulcrum lets out a sigh and says, "Tired, mostly. I, um... thank you? All of you. Sorry for the trouble."

"Just get some rest. Misfire, make sure he stays put. Spinister, check on his vitals." Krok glances at Crankcase. "We still need to go ahead and check on the inventory of what we took in from that lab."

"Thrilling," Crankcase grumbles. "Let's get it over with."

Fulcrum watches the two of them go, sighing against Misfire. Once Spinister seems satisfied enough that Fulcrum's been cleaned off as well as he could be, he pokes and prods until he gives a grunt of satisfaction.

"I'm gonna do a few swab checks over the next few days, but everything looks like it's back to normal," Spinister confirms.

In response all Fulcrum can really do is give a small noise. He's been thoroughly fragged and he's tuckered himself out after so many overloads. Being so worn out, it makes it easy enough for Misfire to lightly shove him down onto the berth. "You heard Krok, get some recharge," Misfire tells him, grinning.

Before Fulcrum can say anything, either in protest or in confirmation, he feels the sudden weight of Spinister on top of both of them. It's not too much to bear, but it definitely means that Fulcrum is effectively pinned to the berth, being more or less snuggled fiercely by the medic.

"Okay," is all Fulcrum can really say.

This really isn't such a bad way to end all of _that_. 

With a sigh, Fulcrum keeps his optics off and lets himself finally get some rest without any distractions.


End file.
